


234 - Last Night (Beer Fear) (by Lucy Spraggan)

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Songfic NonCatfish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “have you ever heard the song ‘last night (beer fear)’ by lucy spraggan? i thought it could be a cool fic idea maybe (not like a full on song fic) just more sort of the reader saying loads of things to van when she’s drunk that she then says she didn’t mean when sober? and then at the end then actually getting together or something? or even the part where she gets arrested?” from a not-so-anonymous anonBonus mini-request of Van and Reader rapping to Eminem while drunk.





	234 - Last Night (Beer Fear) (by Lucy Spraggan)

The leg you were scratching twitched away from your hand. Confused, you sat up. Oh. Not your leg. Not your bed. Not really your friends. What the fuck… Where the fuck… How the…

You awkwardly crawled out of the bed and looked at your surroundings. Rosie was in the mess of human bodies. Five people? Maybe six; you couldn't determine if the lump under the blanket was another person or just linen.

"Hey, Rosie," you tried in a painful whisper. "Rosie?"

She was as dead to the world as you were a minute before. Sitting on the foreign bedroom floor, you curled up and just waited for the previous night's impact to crush you.

…

A couple of days later, you were sitting on the couch with Rosie. You were watching trashy reality television and eating ice cream from the container.

"I need to like… stop drinking so much," you said as you watched a girl on television throw up on a nightclub floor. You were sure you'd never been that bad, but yet it felt like a familiar scene.

"Okay,"

"Seriously, Rosie. And the smoking too. I only do it when I drink. I should just stop altogether,"

"A social smoker. Ain't anything wrong with that," she replied, not really paying attention.

"You're a fuckin' enabler," you said as you took the peanut butter and chocolate from her and swapped it for your salted caramel.

"Prefer the term 'sidekick,' actually. Speakin' of all this. You coming Friday night? Some of my old mates are in town. Should be a real good one. Van will be there,"

"What part of 'I don't want to lose whole days at a time' do you not understand?"

"Larry says he got a haircut and looks all grown up now," Rosie continued. When she glanced at you with a smirk, you ignored her. "Alright then. Don't come. Go to the fuckin' gym and drink a kale fuckin' smoothie or something. Just saying. It will be mayhem."

Even if you wanted to go to the gym and drink a kale fuckin' smoothie, mayhem was your middle name and the call of cheap drinks and seeing Van again was too much. Far, far too much.

…

It was a little past 1 am when you'd finished playing shots, spirits and cocktail bingo. A volatile mix of vodka, tequila, brandy, whiskey, Baileys, wine, rum, and flaming Sambuca. Granted, some of that was consumed in just a sip stolen from friends, but still. It was swashing around in your stomach, impact minimised only slightly by the chips and gravy you had before heading out.

Van had arrived somewhere around wine o'clock. The alcohol in you might have been a bad mix, but you and Van were worse. You always had been. A few drinks in and you said, "I love you, Ryan," and he said it back while straightening your necklace. A little later, when you accidentally got lime juice in a scratch on your arm you cried real tears and said, "I'm dying! Ryan! I'm dying!"

Van held back a smile and calmly replied, "Love, you're gonna have to stop callin' me that, and you ain't dying. Come on. Some fresh air will do you good."

Outside you let Van put his long grey jacket on you. He laughed and said you reminded me of when he used to wear his dad's good suit jacket and pretend to do interviews for Rolling Stone in the bathroom mirror. He held you close as he smoked against the wall. When he brought the cigarette to your lips, you inhaled. So much for not being a social smoker. You reasoned that it wasn't the need for tobacco that made you do it, but the want to be closer to Van. To share his things. Do what he did.

"I need you," you whispered.

"Nah. You're stronger than that. You don't need no one," he replied. All you heard was 'You'll never really mean a thing to me, Y/N.' The corners of your eyes pricked with tears and you took a step back.

"Fuck you," you spat, dropped his coat to the ground, and went back inside alone.

It was a night that was set on repeat. Whenever he was in the city, you'd drink too much too quick together, then whoever would get to the line first would cross it, pissing the other one off. 

You followed Rosie to the next party and didn't see Van again that night. 

…

Saturday morning you woke up in your neighbour's backyard. Rosie and you had somehow superhumanly scaled the fence and climbed into the treehouse. Keys had been lost. Phones had been dead. Options had been limited. When Tim, thirty-six-year-old father of three, gently pushed you both awake, you looked up at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Girls," he said. "Uh… might wanna clear off before Kate sees yous here."

His wife was worried about the influence the young and reckless neighbours would have on their daughters. You nodded at him, climbed to the grass below and scurried along the side of the house and back into your cottage. The keys were sitting on the footpath, likely dropped when getting out of the taxi.

"Fuck, Rosie," you said when you crashed onto the couch.

"Yeah. Maybe… Maybe we try the healthy thing… Tell me about it again… Wait, no, first. Van. What happened there?"

"Good question,"

"Right. Well… We have to go to that thing tomorrow for Nick's club's opening. Pretty sure he'll be there… Might wanna, you know, make a decision about what you're doing before then."

You pulled a throw pillow over your head and hoped if you tried hard enough you'd never have to actually participate in the real world ever again. The hangover seemed deadly enough. If that didn't kill you, the embarrassment of a photo of you doing the robot spreading across Facebook like wildfire might have done the job.

…

It was 3 am when Van found you on Sunday night. Monday morning. Whenever. By 4 am you were asking him to marry you. He was on his knees and you had instantly forgotten why. Looking down at him, his arms around your waist and head pressed into your hips, you were so, so fucking in love.

"Ryan?" you asked.

"No,"

"Yeah, Ryan, will you marry me? I want like, all of your babies,"

"Not just some of them?" he asked back, looking up at you and smirking. He stood up then and lead you back to everyone else.

"I'm gonna find Rosie," you said but you weren't sure if anyone heard you.

Following Rosie's cryptic messages, you ducked behind a door marked 'Employees Only' and wondered through a couple of storerooms. She was sitting in the cleaning supplies cupboard, vomiting into the mop bucket. 

"This is gross," you said, but sat down next to her and used the hair tie around her wrist to make a messy bun.

"You're gross," she said back, not taking her head from the bucket.

After ten minutes, you helped Rosie to a cab, where she refused to let you in.

"Rose, you need me,"

"No. Nah. I'm just… It's okay…" she said.

"I'm not leaving you alone," you argued, almost tripping over your own feet.

"She ain't alone, Y/N," a voice from beside you said. Rosie's on/off again boyfriend. He climbed into the taxi and she gave you the thumbs up. They were definitely going to kiss in the taxi and she had definitely not washed her mouth since puking her guts up. You waved to them, snorting, then went back inside.

"Y/N!" Van yelled, jumping from a bar stool by the door and pulling you into a crowd of people. He'd downed a couple of shots while you were gone and had started to miss you. Need you. "You can have my babies if you sing with me!"

So, two trailer park girls went round the outside, round the outside, round the outside. And everyone in the bar made the 'chk-chk-wah' sound despite being well and truly indie as fuck; there was not a hip hop soul in sight. You knew the words better than Van, but he could say them quicker. Together you almost had it on lock, except, not really, because you were both very drunk and Van was painfully unaware of his Whiteness.

When the song was done and people looked around a little embarrassed at how into it they had got, Van took you outside. He lit a smoke and shared. You watched him. His grin was stupid. "You're such a loser," you said. He just grinned harder.

Kissing Van always felt so easy, especially when drunk. Limbs heavy. Vision blurry. Logic hard to come by. Kissing was simple and good and warm. So, when someone interrupted it, you were furious.

"Do me a favour and fuck off, yeah?!" you yelled at the person. When you spun, Van reaching out to stop you but failing, your body collided with the stocky build of a cop on a power-trip. You stumbled back and fell off the sidewalk.

"Miss, you're going to have to come with us," he said, not moving to help you up. Van was already wrapping his arms around you, holding you close.

"She's right, mate. I got her. I'll take her home now," he said, his voice suddenly clear. Van's back had straightened and his fingers pressed into you with a fierce protectiveness. You clung to him.

"Too late for that. Disorderly drunk, she is. Gonna take her to sleep it off," the cop said. He took your wrists and twisted them behind your back. Van went to lash out, but his friends were suddenly there.

"Fuck you!" you yelled at the cop, trying to work out how to purposefully spit.

"Y/N!" Van's voice, but it was too late for that.

You kicked at the seats and doors of the cop car and cried all the way to the station.

…

9 am came quickly. It was already almost dawn when you were thrown in the drunk tank and you passed out for a majority of the time there. Your name was called and you were lead to Rosie and Van in handcuffs.

"How do ya like my bracelets?" you asked them. Rosie snorted, amused. Van's eyebrows were pulled together.

"Bit fuckin' unnecessary," he said to the cop.

You signed papers and got off with a warning.

Back home, Rosie got to work making breakfast and tea, leaving you and Van on the front porch with, "Should learn to shut your mouth, Y/N," in place of sympathy.

"She's a weird one," Van commented, not fully relaxing into the plastic chair. He was cracking his knuckles and watching you carefully.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Don't think I've ever really seen you in the proper daylight before…" he replied, his voice coming out slow, like he was unsure if it was real at all.

You covered your face with your hands and groaned. "Yeah, well, look, hungover and unwashed probably isn't my best look,"

"Don't be like that, Y/N. You're dead pretty. You know I think that,"

"Do I?" you asked with a smirk. He shook his head and sat back in the chair. He lit a cigarette and offered you one. If it wasn't the one between his lips, you didn't want it. Also, you just didn't want one at all. "Trying to quit," you said with a smile that meant 'thank you.'

"Good for you. Should probably do that."

You sat in silence for only a minute. In your head, you were going over the script that had played out many times before. The one where you pretended that everything you had done and said the night before was all because of the alcohol. Vodka was to blame for so, so much, you see.

"I, ah… Sorry…" you started.

"For what?"

"Um… Anything weird I said last night. You know how I get. Bit emotional and clingy when drunk."

Van didn't bother looking at you. He'd seen the expression enough times to know it. His was new though. It wasn't the forced one that was always the reply. He didn't laugh it off with you and say the usual, 'oh, yeah, same, just get a bit handsy, we're all good, love.' He just watched the neighbour's kids walk down the road with five dollars each to spend at the corner store.

"You don't though," he finally replied. "You don't get emotional and clingy with everyone. It's just me, right?"

What did he want you to say?

The youngest girl spotted you. "Hi, Y/N! Dad says you were in our tree!" she yelled. Her sister pulled her along. You waved. "I won't tell Mum!" And they crossed the road.

"You were in their tree?" Van asked.

"Long story,"

"Right… Anyway… You don't need to say sorry for nothing. You haven't done anything wrong. But we can't keep doin' this,"

"Yeah, I know. I'm probably really fucking up my kidney… or liver… Which one processes alcohol?" You tried to change the subject with a bubbly tone.

"Y/N. You know that's not what I mean," Van replied. He put his half-finished cigarette out in the ashtray and stood up. "But, 'ave it your way. I'll see you around," he said with a shrug. He only got as far as the first step down.

"Wait!" you said, moving to stand in front of him. He stepped back up. "I just… It's… It is just you,"

"Yeah. And it's just you," he replied.

"So…?"

Rosie's voice called from inside the house that breakfast was ready. You could hear Kate yelling at Tim for giving each of the girls five dollars. Van would be like that as a father too. Light rain started to fall and on the cottage's tin roof it sounded louder than it should have. Van's lips curled up into a smirk.

"So…" he repeated.


End file.
